A Matter of Perspective
by Dark Acerbus
Summary: A serial killer prowls the night of Central City, preying on criminals. But will his vigilante mission be stopped when the police put a bounty on his head, attracting the likes of Nack the Weasel and Espio the Chameleon? -More detailed summary in profile-
1. Chapter 1

_**Okay, this is the first time I've attempted a first-person viewpoint, and I'm hoping it's turned out well. Personally, I'm quite proud of it, but we'll see.**_

_**Anyway, a quick heads up: this fic is rated Mature for a reason. That reason being that there are some graphic descriptions of violence, as well as some dark themes throughout. Although, when you're writing in a first-person perspective for a serial killer, that's to be expected.**_

_****_

Everything belonging to SEGA (i.e locations, characters, items etc) belong, obviously, to SEGA.

All other characters and locations belong to me, so please don't steal.

* * *

The nights are growing colder. Tiny droplets of moisture spew forth as I let out another breath, but soon disappear again, joining the nothingness of the night. My bare feet find it difficult to gain purchase on the ledge I crouch upon, and the only reason I haven't fallen to the alley floor some 20 feet below is the natural grip my species is gifted with. I glance at my skinny arm and see that the moonlight is reflecting off my viridian scales. I quickly pull down my black sleeve, lest anyone below see me. There isn't anyone in the alley yet, but there's every chance that a local tenant may glance out of their dingy window and see me perched on the side of a building. I can't afford to let that happen, which is why I'm dressed head to toe in black. Even my long tail, which is wrapped around my perch, is covered in dark cloth.

I find it difficult to find a purpose for the stone protuberance I perch upon. I can only assume that a statue, perhaps a gargoyle or some other monster, once squatted where I now wait. It must have finally been defeated by the weather and fallen off, allowing me, another monster, to take its place. And like my predecessor I sit unmoving, stolidly watching the alley below me for any sign of movement. I glance at the black watch on my wrist. 01:54, it reads. My prey should arrive soon.

My victim tonight is a vicious one. From what I can gather, he's some kind of syndicate enforcer; the guy you can count on to deal with people who forget their duties, the guy you can count on to inflict as much pain as possible but keep his victims alive, and the guy you can count on to smile while he does it. I've been stalking him for a week now, and he sickens me. It wouldn't be so bad if he stuck to his boss' targets, but this sick bastard goes out of his way to find people he thinks deserve punishment and beats them half to death.

Just last night I watched him at work. Some shopkeeper, an old guy who couldn't defend himself, had apparently refused to pay his protection money. I couldn't help admiring the old man, but my target felt differently. By the time he was finished, I could barely bring myself to look at the poor old shopkeeper. His cheeks were bloated like balloons from the punches, more than half of his teeth littered the floor, and every single one of his fingers had been snapped to right angles. My prey laughed the whole time, and just left him there on the shop floor. I could have killed him then and there and stopped him, but some other guys from the syndicate were waiting outside for him, and besides, it goes against everything I said I would never do. "Never get personal," I told myself.

Never seems to work out that way though.

A noise from below. Footsteps. My scaled hands tighten on the edges of my perch. My eyes narrow, trying desperately to find out whether or not the person below is my target. They've just entered the alley, and they're shrouded in shadow. They walk slowly and deliberately, befitting of someone of their stature. The person has a large build; squared shoulders atop a thick torso, complemented by muscled arms and legs. It certainly seems like my target, but without seeing their face I can't be certain. My fingers begin to hurt as they dig further into my stony perch. Come on, come on, move faster! I need to see your face!

The shadow lifts at last, and it is who I'd hoped it would be. His square-jawed face is rough and misshapen, as though he'd been in too many fights as a youth. A layer of stubble covers his chin; he probably thinks it's stylish, the fool. He's wearing, as usual, a dark pinstriped suit with matching trousers and dark leather shoes. I find myself wondering if gangsters deliberately dress stereotypically, just so people know who they should fear. It's more than likely.

Now that my prey has arrived, it's time to abandon my perch. Being careful not to slip on the frost that coats the stone, I turn and judge the distance between me and the fire escape that clings to the side of the dingy building my perch attaches to. About 9 feet separates us; easily jumpable for someone like me. I tense myself, and then leap into the abyss. I catch a hold of the black metal railing and quickly pull myself over it, landing silently on the cold metal platform beyond. I immediately glance back down to the alley to see if I've been spotted. I haven't, but my prey is getting dangerously close to the base of the building I'm on.

I wait a few seconds until he's passed me, and then continue on down the stairs to the ground. By the time I drop silently to the pitted tarmac, he's reached roughly the midpoint of the alley. I look around briefly, checking for any unwanted guests, before setting off to catch up with the man. He's only a few seconds away at a jog, but I need to go slower if I'm to remain hidden. I dart forward and duck behind some bins as he looks around. Alley rats, unevolved creatures, surround my hiding place and waste no time in congregating around my feet. I make no move to shoo them, despite my disgust, and content myself with checking on my target. He's moving off again. I stand up, scattering the rats back to their dank holes, and set off. It takes almost a minute of sneaking, hiding, then sneaking again to finally get within striking distance.

I crouch slightly to pull my knife from its ankle sheath. I'm only 2 metres away from him, and he still has no idea. My long tongue flicks out to wet my drying lips. My entire body is ripe with anticipation. This vile creature, this 'enforcer', is about to get what's he's deserved for a long time. And I can't wait.

I take two more steps, and then lunge.

* * *

Nack the Weasel wasn't happy. He had just come back from raiding an old echidna ruin, having gained a veritable collection of ancient artefacts while there, only to find that no-one would buy them. Apparently, everyone interested in old relics also happened to be inclined towards believing in old legends. Legends, for example, that said the Mystic Ruins temple, and all that was in it, was cursed. Probably didn't help that that Chaos monster that had levelled the city a few years back had ties to echidnean legend.

"Superstitious old prats..." Nack muttered, staring into the empty shot glass before him. He had spent the last hour or so in one of Station Square's dingiest bars trying to drown his sorrows, but had only succeeded in making himself feel worse. He normally wasn't one to mope over bad luck, but this particular piece of bad luck had cost him quite a lot of time and money, for absolutely new reward. And to Nack, work without pay was one of the most heinous things imaginable.

"Somethin' up buddy?" the barkeeper asked. The barkeeper was a burly man; fat, but not without his fair share of muscle. A reasonably heavy beard covered his jovial features, but didn't conceal his seemingly genuine curiosity. Nack, however, was in no mood to deal with cheerful people. Not that he usually was, but today he was in a particularly foul mood, and this unfortunate barkeeper had just made himself a target. Not a good idea when talking to someone nicknamed the Sniper.

"Yeah, pal," Nack sneered at the unfortunate barkeeper, "Some of the lice from that hedge on your face seem to have got into my glass. Get me a new one, eh? Or at least give this one a wash before you try and give me more of that excuse for booze you're selling."

The barkeeper shook his head resignedly and picked up the glass. Nack sneered after him, his eyes not leaving the man's large form until he returned with another glass. Once he had set it down, the man walked away again, gladly tending to another customer.

Nack downed the shot in one, not even acknowledging the burning sensation it caused in his throat. He sighed and rubbed his tired eyes, the cool brown leather of his gloves soothing against his skin. Maybe he'd had enough for one night. He could always try to sell his goods somewhere else, and who knew? Maybe he'd even make a profit from this latest venture.

"Not bloody likely..." he muttered to himself. Heaving himself off the stool he sat on, he started making his way to the door of the bar. His heavy leather boots clunked against the wooden floor, each step ringing unpleasantly in the weasel's large ears. He was almost at the door when the barkeeper noticed him.

"Hey, buddy!" he shouted, "You gonna pay for those drinks?"

Nack grumbled incoherently and kept walking, pushing the door open and stepping out into the night. Moonlight glittered brilliantly on the sea's surface, and if Nack was the kind of person to appreciate things like that, he'd say it was beautiful. The sea breeze was cool and soothing against his skin, but he had to hold his wide-brimmed stetson hat on to keep it from fluttering away. The bar behind him was just one of the buildings on Station Square's waterfront, although it was probably the least attractive. In fact, this entire section of the waterfront was ugly; run-down and dilapidated, completely clashing with the newer buildings mere minutes away. Nack glanced out to sea, snarling at the city's Statue of Victory distastefully. The statue, which was a sculpture of a human and mobian warrior standing over slain enemy, had been built fairly recently to not only celebrate the victory of Sonic over the Chaos monster, but also to celebrate the city's successful effort to rebuild itself. Such sentiments made Nack's stomach turn. Dismissing the Statue, he turned and began trudging along the wooden planks, his boots still clunking. He was heading towards the waterfront's parking area where his bike, and its seemingly worthless cargo, was waiting.

"Hey, just where d'you think you're going?!"

Nack screwed up his eyes at the shout. The barkeeper's voice was way too loud for his liking. He slowly turned around to face the burly man, who had burst through the front door to his bar and seemed to have been followed by at least half of his regulars.

"Yeah man!" one of the many guys behind the bar's owner said, "You ain't goin' nowhere 'till you pay up! Ain't no-one disrespects Big Steve like that!"

Nack groaned at this man. He was clearly a prime example of inbreeding; hideously deformed in the facial region, severe mental difficulties, and overall just a bit creepy. Nack really couldn't be bothered dealing with the barkeeper, or 'Big Steve' as he was called, and his cronies. He had just lost out on a deal that should have earned him thousands, and he was a bit drunk on top of that.

So, to solve the problem, he slipped one of his six-shooters from its hip holster and levelled it lazily at the group. The hammer made a satisfying click as he pulled it back, snapping a bullet into the chamber.

"Look morons," he growled, "I'm _really_ not in the mood, okay?"

The men, of whom there were at least ten, all suddenly stared at Big Steve, as though looking for guidance. Big Steve himself simply gaped at the gun and began stepping back towards his business. The sudden change of confidence to terror amused Nack intensely, and his small grin only served to unnerve the barkeeper and his friends further.

"H-hey, take it easy buddy," Big Steve stammered, "I-it's cool, y-you just... just h-have the drinks on the house... okay?"

"Thank you _ever_ so much, _Big Steve_," Nack spat, spouting the name as though it was an insult. The men quickly cowered back inside the bar, leaving Nack to holster his gun and once again head for his bike. Idiots like those men didn't deserve to breath the same air as him, let alone try and stand up to him. They obviously had no idea who he was. But then, the name of Nack the Weasel, or Fang the Sniper as he was once known, no longer held the same power it used to. Time had that effect, much to chagrin of the weasel/wolf hybrid.

It didn't take long for Nack to reach the parking lot where his bike was parked. The _Marvellous Queen II_ sat patiently in the centre of the square lot, waiting for its charge to return and take it home. She was a powerful old girl, styled in the image of an old chopper and gifted with all the growl associated with her look. Nack would have preferred to have driven the original _Marvellous Queen_ here, but for some reason Station Square, along with several other cities in the United Federation, had outlawed hover vehicles. The purple-furred hybrid couldn't think of any reason for this other than the government being influenced by oil companies. Hover vehicles didn't need oil to run, but more conventional vehicles did, leading to Nack's not unlikely theory. It seemed that even the government was corrupt nowadays; not that that was anything new.

The _Marvellous Queen II_ had several satchels attached to her rear, used to carry all the equipment Nack might need while working; flashlights, excavation tools, lockpicks, ammo, and a variety of other bits and bobs. One of the satchels also contained the old artefacts from the treasure hunter's latest venture, and he decided to check on them, just in case.

In keeping with his luck of late, the artefacts were nowhere to be found.

"Son of a BITCH!" he shouted, throwing his hat to the ground. "DAMN IT!" He stomped around from several minutes, kicked over a few bins and growled at a couple taking a night-time stroll before he came to his senses and tried to calm down. He took some deep breaths and mulled over his situation. He had just spent three days digging around in some ancient echidnean hellhole to steal a bunch of what turned out to be worthless crap, and then had his worthless crap stolen by what were likely street punks, who wouldn't even know what to do with them.

"DAMN IT!" he shouted, kicking over another bin.

* * *

It's strange how beautiful blood can be.

Tonight, for example, it is reflecting the pale glow of the moonlight, giving it an almost... ethereal quality. It's usually viscous appearance has been replaced with that of an elegant crimson sparkle, which dances and flows through the cracks littering the alley floor. I could sit and watch it for hours, if I was so inclined, but unfortunately I don't have that much time. Eventually the sun will rise, and when it does, the authorities will undoubtedly find my newest victim.

He's not quite dead yet, but he's damn close. He's slumped on the ground at my feet, twitching like an asylum patient. I suppose it's understandable, given his present condition.

One of his eyes has been reduced to nothing but a red, swollen mess; in fact, the sight somewhat reminds me of a squashed tomato, complete with running juices. The skin of one of his cheeks hangs off like a flap on a door, and occasionally slaps against the sticky patch where it used to reside with a sickeningly wet squelch. His face is swollen and bruised beyond hope of repair, much like the old shopkeeper's was once he was done with him. I did that on purpose. I'm a firm believer in the principle of 'an eye for an eye', and this man has paid for everything he's ever done tenfold. The rest of his body is as bad as his face; both his arms and legs are broken, and he's missing three of his fingers. The rest are snapped, again like the old man's. His clothes are in tatters, revealing his blue and purple chest. He's covered head to toe in bruises, mostly thanks to the steel baton I found hiding in his pocket. I suspect his ribs may have been broken and punctured his lungs, going from his haggard breathing. He's most definitely got internal bleeding; the blood-stained rag that was stuffed in his mouth a few minutes ago tells me that if nothing else.

To be perfectly honest, I'm surprised this excuse for a human being _is_ still alive; I may have underestimated him. Still, it makes no difference now. There's nothing he, or anyone else, can do to prevent his fate. He is close now. His final breath draws near, and my body tightens in anticipation. I don't understand why I feel like this as my victims die; it's as though I get some kind of pleasure from watching their final, laboured breaths.

I suppose I do. They deserve it.

He mutters something through hideously bloated lips. I can't hear him, so I crouch down next to his twitching body and put my ear close to his mouth.

"K... ki... ll," A raking cough interrupts him, bringing up more blood. "K-kill... m... me..."

Many people would take pity on him now. He's received his punishment, hasn't he? Should I end it?

No. Not yet.

I lean in very close, making sure he can hear me through his battered, cauliflower-like ears. "Soon... but I'm not quite done with you yet, my friend."

He tries to sob. Desperately tries, but his tears ducts won't allow it; they're far too swollen. And I smile. I can't help myself. I know it's wrong to do so, but... this power... the feeling of power that I have over this dying man is... addictive. I crave it. That's why I hunt for new victims so often. That's why I do what I do. That's why I kill.

But I meant what I said. I'm not done with him; there's still one thing left to do. I reach down and rip open his shirt, so that there's no longer any clothing covering his once pink torso. I trace a scaly finger over the battered flesh and then reach down to my ankle to unsheathe my knife. I bring up the large blade, letting him see exactly what I intend to do. He tries to wriggle away, but in vain. We both know there's nothing he can do. He's completely powerless against me.

I run the tip of the blade over his sensitive flesh, smiling as he twitches, and then push down. He tries to scream, but his throat is full of blood and besides, his lips are too swollen to even attempt anything more than a whisper. The blade is buried in his lower abdomen, where I let it linger for a few seconds, before I start carving. His eyes roll back in his head from the pain, but I continue nonetheless. I finish my first shape, and move up his torso onto the next. The knife plunges in again. And again.

By the time I'm finished, he's long dead. His husky breathing has stopped, and the blood is no longer flowing from his cuts as it did before. I wipe my blade on the remains of his shirt, cleaning it as best as possible, before tucking it neatly back into its sheath. I stand up, check to see if anyone's around, and then admire my handiwork. The moonlight is still reflected in the blood. His body is twisted and mangled in pure agony; his final moments must have been excruciating. He's covered head to toe in cuts, bruises and wide gashes. His newest, and biggest, injuries are littering his torso. My carving was not, as he may have believed in his final moments, random. No, it had a purpose.

For you see, I am a killer who likes to have his work known. To that end, I have left my twelve victims to date with a distinct signature; a reminder to the authorities of who they should thank for ridding the streets of men like this man. This man, who marks the thirteenth entry in my ever-growing list of casualties. The carving on his torso spells out a word; a name I have chosen for myself while I work. A name the police have foolishly added to their most wanted list.

'Slade', the flesh reads.

* * *

The birds chirped cheerfully outside the large window, letting the entire world know that all was well with the new morning. The sun was shining, the clouds were white and fluffy, and Nack the Weasel had murder on his mind.

"Damned birds..." he muttered, swinging his legs over the side of the king-size bed. The house he was staying in wasn't his; far from it in fact, it actually belonged to a family who just happened to be out of town. It had been by pure luck that the house was empty when Nack broke in the previous night, making a change from his recent streak.

_Just as well,_ he had thought as he pulled the _Marvellous Queen II_ round into the back garden. If there had been someone home, things may have gotten nasty. And that was something the weasel preferred to avoid. As far as he was concerned, violence was only really acceptable when threatened, or when he was getting paid.

Nack pushed these thoughts out of his mind as he got up out of the soft bed, wriggling his toes in the thick white carpet that layered the floor. Deciding he'd go for a shower, he grabbed a towel from an open wardrobe and headed for the on-suite bathroom.

Half an hour later he sat in the huge house's living room draped in a thick towel, watching the television. The towel wasn't for privacy's sake; mobian genitals were generally hidden beneath fur or weren't external until needed. The towel was simply there to dry his dripping fur, and to give a little extra comfort. He had looted the kitchen before settling in the living room, and had made himself some cheese-on-toast. Nothing special, but he was hungry and wanted some quick food.

He brushed some crumbs out of his bushy white muzzle as he flicked through the channels on the huge widescreen television before him. Everything was complete crap. From "I'm a slightly angsty teenager going through high school" to "I'm a serious character in a serious show and I really want you to take me seriously", the purple-furred hybrid could find nothing he liked. He eventually settled on a relatively new film called "Blue Streak." It was filmed as a sort of mock documentary, supposedly chronicling the life of Sonic the Hedgehog and his friends but actually just making fun of them at every available opportunity. It was Nack's kind of film.

He'd had his run-ins with Sonic the Hedgehog. Oh yes, the hedgehog had prevented him from getting his hands on the Chaos Emeralds; jewels containing unlimited power and allowing for limitless possibilities. But more importantly to him, the jewels had unlimited value. If Nack had gotten his hands on them, he could have named any price he liked and some idiot would still have bought them. Possibly Dr Robotnik, or Eggman as he now called himself. Nack had his dealings with the fat man too; he'd made something of a partnership with the Doctor years ago, the same time he encountered Sonic for the first time, in fact. He had agreed to assist Eggman in his search for the emeralds, without telling the megalomaniac that as soon as he had them, he'd scarper. Still, Sonic had beaten him in the end, along with Eggman, making his double-cross somewhat redundant.

But that was all in the past, and at least now Nack was getting to laugh at the ridiculous blue hedgehog. His entertainment was interrupted all of a sudden, however, with some sort of breaking news bulletin. Nack usually wasn't one to follow the news, but he refrained from changing the channel for one reason, and one reason only. The text flashing up on the screen contained the word 'bounty', and that piqued the weasel's interest. He was down on his luck right now, but it just so happened that bounty hunting was one of his many dubious occupations.

"Police officials in Central City today have confirmed that the infamous serial killer, calling himself 'Slade', has claimed another victim," the newsreader droned. She looked completely uninterested in what she was saying. "Authorities are not willing to comment further on the victim at this time, but they have released details of a reward for Slade's capture. A bounty of 150,000 rings will be awarded to whomever delivers Slade to the Central City Police Department alive, and 50,000 will be awarded if he is delivered dead. Officials believe that this will speed up the capture of the killer and hope it will prevent him from striking again. In other news-"

Nack turned the television off, cutting the woman's sentence short. This was an interesting turn of events indeed, and could be just what he needed to get himself back into the fast lane, and more importantly, back in the money. He stood up from the large sofa and made his way back to the bedroom, where his clothes were waiting.

"150,000..." he muttered to himself. A wide grin slowly spread across his face, revealing the overly sharp canines that had once earned him the nickname 'Fang'. He chuckled softly as he pulled on his heavy boots, thinking about all the things he could buy with that kind of money.

"Sounds like my kinda job."

* * *

_**  
So, any good? I'll be continuing anyway, but feedback is always appreciated.**_

_**Thanks for reading.**_


	2. Chapter 2

_****_

Right, next chapter. I'll warn you again; this story contains some dark themes, and this chapter is an example of that. Please don't read if you're easily disturbed.

Everything belonging to SEGA (i.e locations, characters, items etc) belong, obviously, to SEGA.

All other characters and locations belong to me, so please don't steal.

* * *

This noise is unbearable. People, cars, televisions, animals... all of them together make a ridiculous din that only serves to frustrate me. Although, on a busy street in the Central Business District, I suppose noise like this is to be expected. I walk swiftly and deliberately through the throng of people littering the street, weaving between them like they're a slalom and I'm a driver. Though of course, they're not. They're just a bunch of ignorant humans who don't seem to have grasped basic manners. It's almost as though they're deliberately getting in my way just to annoy me. They're succeeding.

I hate crowds, and it shows. I stop weaving and instead resort to pushing people out of my way; I'll show them the same level of manners they show me. The humans, who make up most of the throng, give me distasteful glances as I carve my way through them, and mutter under their breath about "those mobians not knowing their place," and "damn animals have no manners," and all sorts of other nonsense. People are so hypocritical.

I finally reach a relatively clear section of pavement, and stop to get a bearing on my surroundings. Being stuck in a crowd of people who are all at least twice your size is a good way to get yourself lost, especially in the gridlocked city centre. I look up to the skyscrapers all around me, and see a huge television screen mounted on the side of one of them. The resident news reporter, the apparently "lovely" Holly Perton, was drawling some rubbish about the traffic in Central City. As per usual, her tanned face shows no emotion whatsoever; I've often wondered why so many humans fawn after her, when she clearly couldn't care less about any of them. Oh well, humans think in strange ways.

Now that I finally have a moment of relative peace, I reach inside my custom-tailored black suit jacket and withdraw a small capsule. Popping the lid off into my palm, I turn the capsule on its end and three pills drop out. The pills are tiny, circular, seemingly insignificant things, but they've served me well for years. They stop my "condition" from getting out of hand. At least, when I don't want it to. I put all three in my mouth and throw back my head, swallowing them dry.

Replacing the capsule back inside my jacket, I straighten my tie and move off again. I'm approaching a crossing, where a large crowd of humans is waiting. I stop, considering whether or not I should wait and let them cross, saving myself the annoyance of being near them, when Ms Perton catches my attention. The reporter has her hand pressed against her ear, likely listening into an earpiece, and the caption "BREAKING NEWS!" heads the screen. Well, at least I've got a reason to avoid the humans now.

"Ladies and Gentlemen of Central City, we've just received some breaking news," she drones.

_No, really? I'd never have guessed..._

"C.C.P.D officials have this morning confirmed that the serial killer known as 'Slade' has struck again." My interest suddenly redoubles. It seems my work is on the news. "Officials are not yet willing to divulge the identity of the victim, but they assure us that the family have been alerted."

_Family? I wonder if they know that he was a sadistic mob enforcer? I doubt it._

"In light of this latest killing, police are stepping up their effort to stop Slade once and for all. To that end, they've released an official reward for the killer's capture. The bounty for a live capture currently stands at a hefty 150,000 rings, while Slade's dead body, along with proof of identity, will fetch a handsome 50,000. We now go to our finance editor, Gordon Juthrie, to see how this bounty will affect the taxpayers. Gordon?"

I've already stopped listening. Mr Juthrie's words on finance are as meaningless to me as the origins of tweed clothing. No, it was Ms Perton's report that interested me. A bounty... A damned bounty? They've put out a bounty on me? Those ungrateful fools! Here I am, ridding their city of degenerates and scum, while they sit in their precinct and drink coffee, and they put 150,000 on my head?

My breathing quickens and my hearts pounds, not entirely in anger. Not for the first time since I started all of this, I feel afraid. Money like that is going to attract the best of the best, likely dangerous individuals to boot, and they may not be quite as inept at investigation as the C.C.P.D. There's a chance that, after three years, I may finally be caught.

No. That's not going to happen. I take a few deep breaths, trying to calm my heart down to a steady riot, and think things through. I've never left behind any evidence, there's never been any witnesses, and there's no-one to prove I wasn't at home during the killings. Hell, I don't even have fingerprints; they were burned off years before I even considered doing what I do now. But thinking about that brings up bad memories; ones I really can't deal with right now. I push them out of my mind and reassure myself that nothing can happen. I won't be caught. There's no way to find me, and no way to prove I was the killer.

People are giving me strange looks as they walk by. I must have reacted to the news even more than I thought. One kindly old person even asks if I'm okay. I brush them off and walk away, heading in my original direction. I don't need words of comfort from a human; I don't need words of comfort from anyone. There's no reason for me to afraid. No reason at all.

So why can't I stop my heart from trying to escape my chest?

* * *

"Alright boys, move out!"

Vector placed his comically large headphones on and started bobbing his head to some tunes, while Espio the Chameleon and Charmy Bee followed him. Behind the trio lay a run-down office, contained within tiny apartment building, which in turn was nestled in a dank alleyway. Above the door to the dingy apartment hung a once flashing neon sign that read "CHAOTIX DETECTIVE AGENCY - WE NEVER TURN DOWN WORK THAT PAYS!" Vector seemed oblivious to his rather dreary surroundings, however, and continued bobbing along to his favourite song.

"Hey Espio," Charmy said in his whiny, sing-song voice, "D'you think we'll be gettin' paid this time? Huh? Do ya?"

"In all probability, yes," came the serious response. Espio's voice was deep and carried an air of thoughtfulness, as though every word he said was carefully considered before it was spoken.

"Yeah, but the last guys didn't pay, did they Espio? Eh, Espio? They didn't pay did they? Not at all! Not one ring! Not a singl-"

"Charmy..." Espio murmured, his voice remaining little more than a whisper, "If you're going to ask me a question, give me a chance to respond, or don't ask at all."

"Oh... sorry Espio. So why didn't they pay, huh? We found where their stuff was, didn't we?"

"They did pay, Charmy..."

"What? They did? How come I never got told? Where's the money now? How come I didn't get any? How coooooooome?"

Espio sighed and rubbed his scaly forehead with gloved fingers. As usual, the seven year-old was beginning to get on his nerves. He watched with distaste as the bee left his side and scooted forward towards Vector, who was slightly ahead and still bobbing to some tunes. Charmy started darting around the crocodile, who was seemingly oblivious thanks to his headphones, and pelted him with a barrage of questions about their last job. Vector finally noticed the bee when he received a painful sting, and snatched his young accomplice from the air.

"Charmy!" he roared, bringing the diminutive mobian up to his face, "Whaddya think you're playing at?"

"Sorry boss, but you couldn't hear me 'cos you had your headphones in an' you were listenin' to music an' it was loud so you-"

"Slow down! What do you want?"

"Well, you said we didn't get paid for the last job but Espio says we did an' I dunno who's right 'cos I never saw any money. Did we get paid boss?"

Vector shot a look of pure malice over his shoulder at Espio, who gave him a simple shrug in response. He hadn't known that he wasn't supposed to tell Charmy. Vector let the bee go with a sigh and continued down the alley, heading for the street. Charmy looked thoroughly confused, and started pestering Vector for answers.

"So did we get paid or didn't we boss? Did we? How come you lied if we did? Did we really? Did they pay us? Did they boss? Huh boss? Did they?"

"Alright!" Vector roared, his mouth open wide enough to swallow the bee whole. "We did get paid, but we needed the money to pay the bills. Obviously you'd act like a kid and say we should spend it on ice-cream or something'-"

"Ooh, ice-cream!"

"Yeah, like that. Anyway, I knew you'd be immature about the whole thing so I didn't bother tellin' you. Happy now?"

Charmy managed to impress Espio by holding his tongue, and instead simply pouted. He made sure to buzz in front of Vector as often as possible as they plodded down the alley, showing his boss just how much he had hurt his feelings by calling him immature. If he hadn't decided to give the crocodile the silent treatment, he'd have made sure to protest just how mature he was.

The seemingly mismatched trio reached the street at last, and started making their way towards the city centre. They had a meeting with a new client to attend, and much to Vector's delight, they had been offered big bucks for the trouble. They didn't yet know what they were going to be asked to do, however, and that made Espio uneasy. If it was something on the right side of the law, the client could just have told them over the phone. As it was, they found themselves trudging through Eastopolis' city centre, heading towards what Espio suspected to be the headquarters of the local syndicate.

The syndicates were huge, city-spanning crime organisations that had existed for decades, but had only come to power recently, in the wake of the Black Arms attacks. The attacks had left many major cities open and defenceless, ripe for exploitation by those who would seize the opportunity. And it just so happened that Eastopolis had been exploited by the Dross Syndicate, which Espio had been told used to have great influence over in Westopolis, the sister city of their current home. Apparently though, Mr Dross had been ousted by someone called Silvano nearly a decade ago, so he had fled here to continue building his criminal empire.

It all made Espio sick. He believed that criminals should be dealt with swiftly and mercilessly, which made it all the more difficult for him when the Chaotix were forced to take jobs from people like Dross. He decided that maybe he should voice his concerns to his boss.

"I've got a bad feeling about this..." he growled.

"I know what you mean partner, I don't wanna work for these people either," Vector replied loudly, attracting a few stares from the crowds of the city centre and seemingly reading Espio's suspicions about the syndicate being their employers, "But they offered us work, and you know our motto."

"Yeah! You know our motto!" Charmy chirped, needlessly throwing in his two cents. "We never turn down work th-"

The young bee wriggled under Vector's massive fist, which was suddenly clamped over his tiny face. "Look pal, I don't like working for these people any more than you do, but sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do to pay the bills. We've gotta make a living somehow, and right now, Dross' our only option. I'd say you could back out, but y'know... that's not your style, is it?"

Espio almost smiled, and shook his head. "No Vector, I'm with you."

"Alright then buddy, let's get this done!" He let go of Charmy, who fluttered away, pouting once again. The trio walked in silence for another few minutes (except Charmy obviously, who flew), until Charmy suddenly stopped and pointed at a shop window, his mouth agape. Espio and Vector took no notice of him at first, but when he stayed transfixed at the window they were forced to go back and get him.

"Charmy, what in blazes are you... lookin'... at?" Vector asked, stopping when he noticed what was inside the window. It was an electronics store, Espio observed, and rows of widescreen televisions were on display in the large window which seemed to have hypnotised both his teammates. He glanced at their faces, and recognised the look. He could almost see the money sigs in Vector's eyes. They had seen a chance for cash.

He turned and looked at the televisions, and realised what had caught their attention. Some female reporter was talking to a man wearing a suit and glasses, but he couldn't hear what they were saying through the glass. But, at the bottom of the screen, there was a caption which read: "C.C.P.D Officials release 150,000 ring reward for the live capture of the serial killer known as 'Slade'. More details later." Espio allowed himself to show a little surprise. 150,000 was quite steep, even for a serial killer. He had never heard of this 'Slade' character before, but he was maybe worth looking into if he was worth that much money.

Vector turned to Espio with a positive gleam in his orange eyes. "You thinkin' what I'm thinkin' partner?"

"We drop the Dross job and go after this bounty instead, correct?" Espio replied evenly.

"Not quite, but close. What I'm thinkin' is that, since you clearly don't wanna do the Dross job, me and Charmy'll take care of it while you head over to Central City and get this guy. That way, we double our efficiency and increase our financial gain!"

Espio raised a purple-scaled brow at Vector's sudden pride. The huge crocodile seemed extremely pleased with himself, not only for his idea but also for using big words in his speech. Charmy fluttered around agitatedly behind Vector, his tiny body positively bouncing in anticipation of the money. Espio had no problem with tracking this 'Slade' character on his own, but he still wasn't happy about his teammates getting involved with the Dross Syndicate. His own moral code wasn't the most admirable in the world, but he had heard stories about the things done under the direction of Mr Dross, and none of them sat easy with him. Still, when Vector had his mind set on something, there wasn't much point arguing.

"Alright," he sighed, "When do I leave?"

"Right now, pal," Vector replied, grinning, "The sooner you leave the sooner you'll get back, right?"

"Understood. Good luck, Vector." And with those words, Espio turned and shot off back the way they'd come, likely heading for the nearby train station where he could hitch a ride to Central City. Vector and Charmy waved after him, both grinning like lunatics.

"So boss, d'you think we can do this job without Espio? Eh? Eh? D'you think he'll be okay on his own, huh? Do ya? Do ya?"

It was only now that Vector realised what he'd done. There was a chance that Espio wouldn't be back for days, maybe even weeks, and until he returned...

Vector turned and looked at his diminutive companion with horror.

Stuck with Charmy...

A few miles down the road, Espio was entering the train station. A train was just pulling into the platform, and he prepared to board it, when he was startled by an earth-shattering scream.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Espio closed his eyes and smirked, before shifting his scales to match his surroundings and latching onto the side of the train.

* * *

The _Marvellous Queen II_ thundered down the seemingly endless highway, her growls resonating loudly in the late afternoon air. The sun beat down from above, basking the desert region in an inescapable heat wave. Nack tugged the brim of his fedora irritably, shifting its position slightly to keep the sun out of his dark eyes. He had just driven over 200 miles, and the last thing he needed now was to wind up in a ditch at the side of the road thanks to an overenthusiastic ball of flame.

He had left the commandeered house in Station Square only that morning, mere minutes after he found out about the bounty, and had been driving for the majority of the day. His destination, Central City, was finally visible on the horizon, its huge buildings looming above all else in the dry region. As the weasel neared the city boundaries, he noticed the landscape around him begin to change. Unlike the rest of the road, this final stretch was surrounded by patches of dry grass and trees. The change, Nack presumed, was due to an active effort by the city's councillors to make the area seem more attractive. Although, the city was home to the President of the United Federation, so Nack didn't see why it would need many more reasons for tourists to visit. He wasn't interested in celebrities or politics personally, but he had noticed that a lot of other people seemed to be.

The road, which had been mostly clear on his journey north, was rapidly beginning to fill with traffic as Nack passed the city boundaries. Small buildings lined the side of the still-straight road; businesses that didn't have the money to establish themselves closer to the city centre. As he drove on, he found himself having to navigate housing estates and high-rise apartment buildings, until he eventually found himself in the part of the city between houses and the centre. It was here that he would be able to track down his first lead.

He pulled into a narrow side street, off the main road he had followed from the outskirts, and rumbled to a halt outside a rather dingy looking bar. Switching off the growling engine of the _Marvellous Queen II_, Nack allowed himself a small smirk; it seemed that no matter what he did, he always found himself in need of a bar in some form or another. This particular establishment had chosen the moniker "HEROES' REFUGE"; a label which hung on a wooden sign above the front door. Nack had been to this place before on several occasions. It was a hang-out for ex-army types, and a haven for bounty hunters everywhere.

Leaving his faithful girl at the side of road, Nack stepped forward and entered the bar. The interior was surprisingly quiet, with only a select few milling about the pool tables and dart boards. A small group lingered at the bar itself, chatting away to the barkeep. The walls of the place were a dark brown, matching the floor, and the entire place was infested with nicotine stains. Smoke permeated the atmosphere, but Nack ignored it and strode over to the bar. His heavy boots clunking against the wooden floor drew a few glances, and his hip-mounted revolvers annoyingly made sure that the gazes lingered.

One of the group at the bar, a rugged, worldly-wise looking cobra, turned round to face the approaching weasel. He was kitted out in urban combat trousers and a black tank-top, covered by a brown leather jacket, which sat comfortably against his dark-grey scales. His eyes, a fierce yellow, burned into Nack as he pulled himself onto a stool, but he was ignored. Nack didn't get the impression that he deserved any of his respect.

"Hey man, you new here?" the snake asked.

"What's that got to do with you?" Nack replied snidely.

"Well, this fine establishment just happens to be the place me and my buddies here," he jabbed a finger at his four friends, "call home. So, I'd say it's very much my business."

"Well, I'd say it wasn't. Don't stick your nose where it doesn't belong, or you might lose it."

"Is that so?" the cobra asked, bemusement spreading across his features. "What makes you think you can take someone like me?"

"For a start, your pupils are dilated. That shows you've had a few drinks, which would affect your hand-eye coordination. Your hand is nowhere near the pistol you're trying to hide under that jacket, and I doubt you'd even have time to take the safety off of it before I put a bullet in your eye."

The cobra sat back and grinned widely, before whipping his hand inside his jacket, slipping his pistol from its underarm holster, taking the safety off and levelling it at the newcomer. To his surprise, however, he found that the weasel hadn't been lying; the cool, deadly barrel of a revolver was mere millimetres from his right eye, ready to fire at a pin drop. All around the standoff, the other patrons of the bar were drawing weapons and aiming at Nack, who barely registered the new threat and kept his steely gaze fixed on the cobra.

"Seems we've got a bit of a situation, doesn't it?" the cobra asked calmly.

"Call them off," Nack growled.

"I will, if you'll agree to be civil and have a normal conversation with me."

Nack growled again and glanced around at the ten or so guns pointed at him.

"Fine," he muttered, clicking the hammer forward on his weapon and tucking it back in its holster. The cobra waved a hand at the other customers, who lowered their weapons, before tucking his own weapon away again.

"I'll ask again; you new here?"

"No. I've been in this city before, but not for a while."

"I see, so what brings you back now?"

Nack hesitated before answering. There was every chance that this cobra and his friends were bounty hunters as well, and if they were, then they could prove problematic in the future. And there was every chance that they would want to eliminate any threat that could stop them getting the money for themselves. He kept his answer as vague as possible.

"Money," he said.

"Money, eh? What, you looking for a job or something? What d'you work as?"

Again Nack hesitated. If need be, he could handle this cobra, or at the least use him as a shield to cover his escape from the bar. He may have been over-thinking the whole situation, but it was that kind of attitude that had kept him alive thus far. "Consider every possibility"; that was just one of his many mottos.

"I'm a bounty hunter," he replied, his voice deadpan.

"Ah..." the cobra sighed knowingly, "So you'll be after that 'Slade' character then? Doesn't surprise me; that boy's fetching quite a price. In fact, we were thinking of going after him ourselves."

"What made you change your mind?" Nack asked, more on edge now that he knew the cobra and his friends were hunters.

"Well, we just got a big score not long ago, so we're taking a bit of a break. Who are you anyway, pal? I never caught your name."

"I didn't give you it, and I don't intend to."

"Oh, come now," the cobra said, almost seeming disappointed, "I thought we agreed we'd be polite with each other?"

Nack glanced around at the other patrons, and saw their hands shifting to concealed weapons. It seemed that this cobra wasn't messing around; he really wasn't going to let him walk out without learning what he wanted to know.

"Fine," Nack sighed, "Nack the Weasel."

The cobra's eyes widened, before he composed himself. Nack noticed that he was looking at him completely differently now. Before, he had an ever-present, almost uppity smirk, but now he looked ever-so-slightly wary. The weasel allowed himself a small smirk. Maybe his name still meant something after all.

"Well, well, well..." the cobra said dramatically, "Nack the Weasel... or is it Fang the Sniper? I've heard stories about you, y'know."

"Is that so?" Nack replied, turning to face his would-be interrogator, "Well let me tell you; all of them are true."

"I see... so tell me: why exactly are you here, in this specific bar? It's not as if that Slade fellow's gonna hide out in a den of bounty hunters, is it?"

"Obviously... I came here for some info. As I said, I haven't been in the city for a while, and it'd help having a place to start looking for the idiot. Know anything that could help?"

"I might... what's in it for me?"

Nack leaned in close to the cobra, so that his friends couldn't hear, and whispered: "You know who I am. That should be enough."

"'Fraid that's not quite gonna cut it here; its cash, or noth-" The cobra was interrupted by a buzzing from his pocket. He reached in and pulled out a mobile phone, checked whatever the message said, and then replaced it. Signalling to the four other who sat with him at the bar, he stood up and made his way towards the door, totally ignoring Nack.

"Well?" The weasel called after him, "Are you gonna give me a price or just leave?"

"Seems it's your lucky day, _Fang_," the cobra said, turning round, "We've got business to attend to, so this is on the house. Rumour has it that the boy's last victim worked for the local syndicate. They've got a building over on River Street; maybe they'll know something. Later."

Nack watched, bewildered, as the cobra and his gang left the building. Why would the cobra have just given up the information? He could have just as easily ignored the weasel and left, but he told him what he wanted to know. Nack could only surmise that maybe, just maybe, the cobra had done it out of respect for who he was. Still, whatever the reason, Nack had a lead, and he planned to follow it up right away. Pausing only to ask the barkeep for directions to River Street, he hopped off the stool and made his way outside.

The _Marvellous Queen II_ rumbled to life as he started her up, and within seconds was rolling off down the street. Not far from the bar, he noticed the cobra and his friends talking to a flustered-looking brown porcupine, and he gave them an appreciative nod. They returned the sentiment, and Nack continued on his journey.

The hunt was on.

* * *

The night envelopes me as I make my way home. As usual, I decided to stay late at the office; not necessarily because I needed the extra money, but because I needed something to do. I can't claim to have much of a social life, so unless I'm at the office, or out doing my real work, my average night is more than a little boring. In fact, the only company I have at home is my pet chao, Lily. She's been the only thing that's kept me going on more than one occasion, and I wouldn't give her up for the world. In fact, she's the only true friend I've had for a long time.

The street I'm walking down is dirty and rotting, just like the rest of this foul city. Certainly, it goes to great effort to appear clean and welcoming, but it's not. Under the facade, this city is just as, if not more, disgusting as any other, despite the fact that it's supposed to be this nation's capital. Graffiti splatters the cracked brickwork of the buildings I pass, and dank alleyways call out to sewer rats everywhere from between the filthy abodes. Corroded metal gates and fences line the entrances to some of these alleyways, but most are left open for whoever wishes to wander down them.

I'm only a few blocks away from home now. The streets are quiet, save for the faint thumping of a bass drum in some hellish rave track that pounds out from one of the apartments. The only other sound is the tapping of my leather shoes against the concrete, and a faint scuffling from somewhere up ahead. My eyes narrow as I grow closer to this scuffling, and I lighten my steps, hoping to muffle my footfalls from whatever is making the noise. I lean in close to the building to my right, and approach the source of the suspicious noise. It's coming from an alley not three metres in front of me.

I reach the corner of the building, and now I realise that the sound has changed. There's still a scuffling, as though someone is violently rubbing against a wall, but there's what sounds like heavy breathing as well. I judge my steps very carefully now, making as little noise as possible, and peek my head around the corner.

Oh no. Oh Gods no.

I sink to the ground and hug my knees, trying desperately to get the image out of my head. Not the image of what I just saw, but of the memories it conjured up. I screw my eyes shut and try to block out the noises from the alley, but I can't. I can't get rid of the memory. Of the day my world ended, and I started on the path that led me to become the monster I am today. I can't deal with this... not again...

No. I'm stronger than this. I can face it. I'm not the monster, the man in that alley is.

I stand up from my almost-foetal position, and steel myself. I peek around the corner again, and this time I'm ready for what I see there. A man, perhaps in his late forties, is holding a young raven-haired woman against the broken brickwork, and the terror in her eyes tells me all I need to know. His breathing, as well as his movements, is becoming increasingly erratic, and I know that unless I do something soon, this poor woman will have more than mental scarring to worry about. I stop peeking around the corner and glance around, looking for a weapon of some kind.

Damn! I can't see anything. I could try taking on the man without a weapon, but he's much larger than me and besides, I'm not exactly the brawling type. I rely on surprise, and any other unfair advantage I can utilise. I move away from the alley slightly, still looking for a weapon, when a scream erupts from the dark space behind me. I immediately spin round, and I know I've made a mistake. A fading shadow is all I see of the man as I sprint into the alley, but I'm too late; he's gone, and the girl is bleeding from a gaping wound in her side. She looks up at me, the terror plain in her wide brown eyes, and I crouch down and take her in my arms.

"P...please," she whispers desperately, "Please h...help me..."

I look again at her wound, and try not to stare at the blood running from between her legs. There's nothing I can do for her. I don't have a mobile, and even if I did, I doubt the ambulance could get here in time to save her. I shift her in my embrace, trying to make her comfortable in her final moments, and lean down close to her ear.

"I'm so, so sorry..." I whisper.

A quick jerk of my arms, a snap, and it's over. I gently lower her body to the ground, making sure she looks dignified for the emergency services when they finally do show up. There was nothing I could do. Nothing I could...

A sob involuntarily racks my body. There is no worse way to die, no worse crime to inflict upon someone, than this. Even drowning must be preferable to being violated in this way. All I could do was end her suffering early; to prevent the long, horrible death caused by bleeding out. I just wish... I wish I could have done the same thing for...

No. Enough of that. I shake my head, clearing it of my unwanted memories, and stand up from the blood-stained ground. This woman may have died tonight, but I can at least make sure that her killer doesn't strike again. I can stop him. I can make sure his life ends more painfully than this woman's, and I can make sure his suffering doesn't end quickly.

I've found my fourteenth victim.


End file.
